One Shot
by rythmteck
Summary: From the author who brought you 'Inconvenient' comes a series of 1000 word or less character studies. Please read and enjoy, and review it you must. : ::Chapter 13 now up. Barbossa POV::
1. The Best Pirate I've Ever Seen

**Author's Note: this is just a little drabble that I came up with while working on 'Caught by the Past' – it's either going to be a one shot deal, or I'll add other one shots to it in the future.  I don't know, I haven't planned that far ahead yet.  Read, enjoy, and review if the fancy strikes you.**

**Sarah**

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Pirates have always fascinated me.

   A strange admission for a naval officer, I know.  But I wasn't always a petty officer in His Majesty's Royal Navy.  I used to be a small lad in Dover, a boy who used to watch the ships come in and who used to sit at his great-uncle's knee and beg for tales from the great sea battles between the Portuguese and the British.  And soon after that, I was begging for tales of Barbary pirates and devious smugglers.  Having grown up on the coast, Robin Hood and the tales of ancient monarchies had never interested me.  How could they when all I had to do was look out the nearest window or door and see the ever changing colors and temperament of the sea?  How could bloody tales of the Tower of London take my attention when there were plenty of old seamen around to tell ghastly tales of ghost ships, crews who had died when their ships had been dashed against the rocks, of pirates swearing revenge on those who executed them.  The sea had been in my ears when I was born and it stayed in my blood as I grew.

   I was perhaps eight or nine when my mother allowed me to go to the execution of one of these pirates.  I don't know what I had been expecting – storms of curses, valiant last struggles for freedom, the shadow of the devil himself – but what I saw was anything but that.  What I watched that day were men in patched and ragged clothes being one by one led to the gallows and shoved into the great beyond.  Some did fight, but it was with the desperation of fear, not with the strength of courage.  For a time it seemed as if the tales I had constructed were nothing more than that – tales.  But then they reached the last man, the captain they said.  He was different than those who had come before him.  He didn't struggle, he didn't curse, but he wasn't meek either.  He faced the noose with the air of one paying a debt that he had known would be collected sooner or later, and was determined to pay it with the attitude befitting a man of fortune.  He was the type of man who I had based my stories around, and all of a sudden, it seemed as if I had been wrong to make such tales; as if in doing so, I had lessened his dignity and that of his death somehow.  I stayed that day and watched the pirates and their captain hang, and then I went home, told my father I meant to enter the navy, and stopped telling to storied of pirates I had made.  But I never forgot them or lost my interest in the pirates themselves.

   Instead, I read.  I read anything I could get my hand on about pirates, or sailing, or naval warfare, and when I turned sixteen I enlisted in the Navy.  For several years I did nothing more than the most basic, the most backbreaking work onboard a frigate.  Several years later, sometime after my nineteenth summer, an opportunity opened for me however, to sail to the Caribbean with a new ship under a respected captain.  There was no holding me back.  I kissed my mother good-bye, tossed my youngest sister up into the air one last time – for luck – and shook hands with my father.  And then I set sails for Jamaica.

   That was ever so many years ago now – eight to be exact.  And I have enjoyed those years.  The sea, a ship, a crew are all things that have become integral to my life.  I get along with my fellow crewmen, I like my superior officers (of which there are less than there used to be now that I'm a lieutenant), and I respect Commodore Norrington.  He's stiff at times, and isn't sure how to relate to the men who serve under him, but he's a decent chap.  Even if he does distain all pirates without partiality.  Which is why I am certain he won't like my news.  "Commodore!"

   My commanding officer raises his eyeglass and surveys the frantic Gillette and the two men aboard the _Dauntless._  "Rash, Turner, too rash.  He is without doubt the worst pirate I've ever seen."  I'm not sure if he means the love-struck blacksmith or the pirate directing him in raising the sails – something near impossible with a single man who knows what he's doing.  Impossible with someone who's spent most of his life on land.  Still, the old admiration wells up in me again at the sight of such a daring and reckless plan.

   Coming along side the _Dauntless_, we board her.  "Search every cabin, every hold, down to the bilges."  As the men follow his orders, the two men they seek swing over to the _Interceptor_ – their intent becoming clear an instant too late.  Why steal a ship that's not prepared to sail even if it is the most powerful in these waters?  Better to take the fastest.  "Sailor!  Back to the _Interceptor_! Now!"  Too late, they are sailing out of range and Sparrow managed to disable ours before sneaking off.  Despite the Commodore's best efforts, a pirate has made a fool of him.

   "Thank you, Commodore, for getting us ready to make way. We'd have a hard time of it by ourselves," comes the cry from the other ship.  The man at the helm holds out his hat in one hand in a effusive gesture of thanks, his other hand on the wheel, apparently unconcerned that musket balls are flying dangerously close to his figure.

   Under normal circumstances, I would share the embarrassment felt by my superior, but what shame is there in being outwitted by someone worthy of matching wits with you?  And Jack Sparrow, as the pirates went, though he didn't seem to be any more than a bumbling fool with amazing luck, was such a person.  "That's got to be the best pirate I've ever seen."

   "So it would seem."

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**As you may be able to guess, this drabble was inspired by the scene where Norrington and his subordinate are watching Jack and Will sail away with the _Interceptor.  Something about that guy always struck me as interesting – instead of being upset about the fact that a pirate had just stolen a ship belonging to the navy, he's showing a bit of admiration.  So, this is what you get from that one little line and my rather scrambled brain._**

**Happy Thanksgiving and PotC release date (in five days!!!)**


	2. When You've Only Got One Shot

**Author's Note: thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter.  Please, let me know what you think of this one.**

**Partially based on the deleted scene right after Will breaks Jack out of jail.**

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One shot.  One chance.  That's been my philosophy in life, ever since my mutinous crew stranded me on an island with a single pistol and bullet.  One shot.  Not that I applied that philosophy to most of my dealings.  With most of the people I encountered on a day to day basis, you started with one chance to get them to do as you wished, but through stupidity, incompetence, or any of the other multitude of sins that plagued the human race, they gave away more.  Once chance generally led to another with them.  No, my belief in a single chance to change things to my advantage now existed only for the pistol I carried at my side.  Once chance, one shot, one person.

   People - the people that lived in the same world I did - wondered why I didn't simply get myself another pistol to use.  I made it seem that I enjoyed relying only on my cutlass to keep myself safe within the degenerate society I inhabited.  Truth was, I refused to so much as touch another pistol unless absolutely necessary.  Every once in awhile that got me in trouble.  In fact, in the early days, trouble came fairly often, seeing as how I wasn't much of a genius with the blade yet, but that changed as I forced myself to grow in skill.  No, the first person I wanted to feel the bite of a shot fired by me was _him._

   One year passed into another, one scheme was replaced by a different plan.  I existed, I rode ships – commandeering them when necessary – but none of them compared with her, with my _Pearl.  My one ship, my one shot at happiness.  Replaced by a pistol at my hip.  Pitiful really.  But then, I must have been pitiful back then.  A man hardly out of adolescence, too young to be captain and too prideful to depend on the advice of friends.  One mistake.  That's all it had taken to sober me up to the realities of the world I had chosen as my own._

   And now I'm facing another young man that still has that lesson to learn.

   "Hurry – someone will have heard that."

   Briefly I wonder if what I'm about to do is wrong.  He is the son of a man I considered a friend and crewmate, but then I reason that I'm not going to leave the lad to die – I just need something he has in order to get something I want.  "Not without my effects."  I hurry over to the wall where the military men so carelessly and arrogantly left my things hanging plain sight.  Have I ever mentioned how much I love English arrogance?

   "Why bother with that?  You could have escaped by killing me before, but you weren't willing to use it."

   Why does the boy expect rationality from a pirate?  Why does he even expect an answer?  I remember when I expected those things along with others.  Time for the boy to learn a lesson I'd had to learn the hard way.  It might even help him in the long run.  "Are you advising that was a mistake?"  I raise my pistol, the one I threatened him with before and the very same that Barbossa gave to me years ago.  I can see the sudden uncertainty in his eyes and the realization that although we have an accord, I never promised to not harm him.  Irrationally I think to myself that Bill used to have that same kicked-puppy-dog look whenever he was thinking about his absent family.  _That's of no importance.  That resemblance will get me in trouble if I'm not careful.  "When you've only got one shot, it's best not to wait for the opportune moment.  That wasn't it – nor is this."_

   We leave.

   The fort is filled with men in red uniforms who are running hither and yon on important business.  It's not to difficult sneak past them, so the part of my mind not filled with plans for commandeering a ship concerns itself with the part of my lesson I'd forgotten.  Opportune moments sometimes are more than a split second in length.  I glance at the young man at my side and wonder what his father had done with his moment, and why I'd never sent the man home.

   Two moments wasted, I suppose.  Three if you count the boy.  He had a lifetime of wasted moments thanks to Bill, Bill had his son's lifetime of wasted moments thanks to me, and I had more moments wasted than I dared think about.

   But it wasn't the wasted moments that mattered at this point.  It was the one coming my way.


	3. No Truth to the Stories

**Ok, folks.  This is actually a one shot that's a tie-in to my first story, 'Inconvenient'.  It's a POV on Jack's scars.  Please, feel free to read it.  And if it interests you, go read 'Inconvenient' and my other long-term fic, 'Caught by the Past'. **

**Enjoy.**

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Life is hard.  Life is almost like the sea at times; it can knock and throw you around, and make you bleed.  It can cut you so deep that you never recover, or it can simply leave you with a scar.

   Scars are a part of life.  It's rare to find anyone not of the nobility or upper-class who does not have at least one scar.  Grandfather has more than his share, and my brothers have collected their own.  It's natural.  It's the sign that a body is strong and able to heal.

   And yet, it seems different for a woman.

   Jack didn't know about my scars.  Why should he?  The only one he'd ever seen was the mark of my family – and it was designed to be pleasant to the eye.  So that night, three weeks after my wedding, I found myself hesitating because of my scars.

   "Jack, stop."  I felt him pull away.  As he did, I let my hands slip from his shoulders.  I want to cry out of frustration with myself.  I _wanted to be with Jack . . . but what if he thought me ugly on account of my scars?_

  "What is it, love?  What're you still scared of?"  I couldn't face him; the puzzled tenderness of his voice had me close enough to tears as it was.  I'd done enough crying in front of this man.  I refused to do more.

   "I'm not pretty, Jack."

   "What are you talking about?"

   "I'm not perfect."  I risked a look at him – his eyes were full of understanding.  And humor.  What was so funny?  "I have scars, Jack."

   "Winnie, darling, everyone as one –"

   "There's more than one.  I've many.  I'm not some gently bred lady who sat around in her house.  I broke my leg as a child, and that left a scar.  I've been grazed by musket and pistol balls, scraped by sword blades.  I have burns.  And . . . and . . . I was shot.  Years ago.  The scar, _that scar . . . it's ugly."_

   At some point my eyes had left his to travel around the room, lighting upon one object after another in agitation.  A hand on my chin forced me to look at my husband.  He searched my eyes for several moments, and then he sighed and shook his head.  He took my hand in his, saying, "Come over here, Winnie."  Jack led me to the cabinets that lined the windows of the spacious cabin.  Sitting down, he pulled me close until I was standing between his knees.  "Scars are a mark of life, Winnie.  So you've lived instead of sitting around like some sort of decoration.  That's nothing of which you need to be ashamed."

   "I know –"  He placed a finger over my lips, cutting off my miserable voice.

   "You know a lot, I've noticed.  But how much of that do you believe?"  He paused, as if judging the wisdom of his actions.  Settling his mind, he took my hands once again, and brought them to the hem of his shirt.  Together, we removed it.  I kept my eyes locked on his tan throat, unsure of what was supposed to be happening.  "Jack?"

   "Take a look, love."  He removed the cloths from his wrists and hands, allowing me to see everything from the waist up without hindrance.  There on his right wrist was the mark of a pirate, the 'P' that had been branded into his flesh.  I traced it with a light finger.  "Aye, the stories do tend to exaggerate at times."  I met his eyes, then continued with my authorized staring.  Above the brand was his personal tattoo – the one that aided in identification.  A bird – a sparrow – flying before a setting sun.  So much like my own.  Further up his arm, past the tattoo and near his shoulder was another tattoo – some kind of Celtic knot-work – and a scar left by a knife.

   There were many other tattoos, and I did examine them, but it was the scars I was supposed to be paying the most attention to.  My eyes found each of them with horrified fascination: two gunshot wounds on the right side of his chest, badly healed.  If they'd been on the other side, I doubted he'd still be alive.  There was a burn on the inside of his left arm, a tattoo over his heart, numerous marks where blades had found his skin.  Including the bloody scrape I'd just given him.  But there were two scars I hadn't seen.  "Jack?  Where –"  His left hand opened so I could study the palm.  A long slash ran across it, cutting across the lines that a palm-reader would use to tell his fortune.  Will and Elizabeth had matching scars.

   I looked up into the partially closed face of my husband.  This next question was likely to be personal, and I doubted he'd answer.  "And the spot where Barbossa stabbed you?"

   His eyes studied mine with an intensity that I'd rarely experienced, but eventually he did answer.  "Here."  His hand placed my fingertips just below the edge of his breastbone.  There's wasn't a scar, but I doubted that being impaled on your own sword was something you soon forgot.

   As a reward, or perhaps a concession, to his honesty, I loosened the laces of my gown and pulled down on the right side, revealing my own brand.  He turned me to better examine it, tracing the circle that enclosed the bird of prey that was pouncing on a merchant ship at full sail.  His touch sent shivers down my spine, and while modesty and a bit of apprehension still gripped me, I was willing to let him take things further.  "They don't exactly mention things like this in the stories, do they?"

   "No, love.  They don't."

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**So, there's that.  Hope to have another one up soon.**

**Thank you to all who reviewed the last chapter.**


	4. Apples

**Ah, a Barbossa POV.  Don't see those too often.  I hope I did the guy justice – he was a great villain.**

**Enjoy,**** me 'earties.                                                                           **

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Now, the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made.  And he said unto the woman, "Yea, hath God said, 'Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden?'"  And the woman said unto the serpent, "We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden: but of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, 'Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.'"

   And the serpent said to the woman, 'Ye shall not surely die:****for God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.'"  And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat.

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Lust.  In the end, everything comes back to lust.  The priests tell us that mankind was condemned for lust of fruit.  That Adam and Eve were damned for it.  I find that it's the other way around for me – I lust for fruit because I'm damned.  The priests also say that the fruit that damned Adam and Eve was an apple . . . I'm inclined to agree.

   It's been ten long years since I've been able to taste a thing.  Unable to taste, or feel, or even grow weary I'm left with nothing but my thoughts.  I don't like my thoughts – they too often lay the blame of my condition at my own feet rather than at the feet of the whelp who foolish enough to fall for the argument of equal shares.

   Lust for a ship.  The _Black Pearl was a decent enough ship back when her sails were whole, her hull undamaged by time and the constant wear of the sea.  And captained by a man with more charisma and idealism than intelligence.  He readily enough gave up the bearings for the Isle de Muerta, and even more easily was discarded.  I don't know how he escaped that island.  Perhaps his head isn't as empty as I always believed.  But for a time I was the snake, tempting the lad to do as I wished.  It had taken awhile for him to give in, but one night, drunk on success and women and rum, he had and I had taken my chance.  The next morning he'd found himself on an island, alone and shipless, with nothing but a round robin to indicate what had happened to him.  It was good to be the serpent._

   But then I'd fallen for lure of another snake.  Sure, the curse was spoken of even then, but no one knew for sure what it did.  Most whispered of immortality, the fruit that Adam and Eve hadn't eaten of.  Well, their loss.

   But immortality isn't all that one would imagine, especially when the negatives outweigh the positives.  It was an apple I'd been eating the first moment I realized I could no longer taste anything, that the juice flying through the air made no impact on my tongue.  I'd cursed Jack Sparrow then.  True, we'd left him to die – but at least he _could die.  I wanted that option again._

   So I led an increasingly surly crew on a ten-year jaunt around the Spanish Main, collecting the coins we'd so carelessly thrown aside.  Each time we returned to the cave to replace what we'd taken and store what we'd stolen, I swore I heard hissing laughter echoing through the dark.

   It wasn't long before we'd restored 881 of the coins to their proper place, but there was the matter of Bootstrap, and the coin he'd claimed.  Of course, superstitious fool that he was, he'd had someone else take the coin from the chest for him.  Oh, he was well and truly dead, we'd get no blood from him.  But he'd always been rambling on about a child, boy or girl none of us could remember.

   Eight years we'd waited for the coin to call to us.  Eight long, sensationless years.  And then the coin had found its way to water and we'd answered.  We had the lass in our hands, hope within reach, all shattered when the girl's blood hadn't worked.  I have no doubt that if I couldn't be killed, my crew would have keel-hauled me there and then.  But I was undead, the same as the lot of them, so they'd turned back to searching, and had found not the girl, but Jack Sparrow.  It was then that I'd known just how cursed I was.

   The man was currently babbling on about something as I bided my time, rifling through the bowl of apples I kept on my table as a reminder of my ultimate goal.  He chooses an apple and takes a seat, for all the world as if he is captain again.  "Although, I suppose I should be thanking you.  If you hadn't marooned me and left me to die, _I'd_ have an equal share in that curse, same as you."  He takes a bite.  "Funny 'ole world, innit?"  He offers me the apple and I sneer.  

   A whole bushel of apples I'd said.  I can still taste the bitter ashes.

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**So, what say you all?  Did I do a good job with our favorite villainous pirate?**


	5. Peas in a Pod

**Author's Note: this one is an Elizabeth POV based on one of the deleted scenes.  Let me know what you think.  ; )**

**Thanks to all who have been reviewing.  You guys are great.**

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"Don't get me wrong, luv."  Jack smiles at me, unsure self-confidence shining in his smile.  If anyone could pull off that look, it's Jack.  "I admire a person whose willing to do whatever is necessary."  The smile fades a bit, leaving seriousness in its wake.  

   It's my turn.  I can play the game as well as he can – as the daughter of an important man, I was trained in the art of verbal warfare.  "You're a smart man Jack, but I don't entirely trust you."

   Jack takes the two or three steps needed to invade my personal space; I meet his eyes and don't back away.  I have bigger things to deal with than a pirate who indulges in pointless intimidation.  "Peas in a pod darling."  

   Bigger things to worry about indeed.  My eyes finally dart away from his as I see that perhaps he is right and I catch sight of Commodore Norrington standing behind Jack's shoulder.  My eyes widen as I wonder how much of the conversation he heard and Jack sees the sudden unease on my face.  Never one to be far behind the game, he twirls around and takes a step away from me at the same time, once again becoming the buffoonish captain.

   Norrington surveys us both for a second before tossing Jack his compass.  "With me, Sparrow."  Jack barely manages to catch the instrument, fumbling for a moment before walking away, the Commodore only a beat behind him.  I know I'm the cause of that beat.

   They leave to go rescue will and somehow defeat an entire boatload of cursed pirates.  I'm left on the deck of the ship with my thoughts.

   _"You didn't tell him about the curse."  She hadn't known why she'd approached Jack to talk to.  Maybe it was because . . . he was the only one who would understand her.  Not the man she'd engaged herself to, but the pirate she didn't exactly like._

_   "I notice neither did you."_

_   "He wouldn't have risked it."_  What she'd meant was, he wouldn't have believed it.  Curses don't exist in the minds of practical and responsible English navy officers.  For the crewmen . . . yes.  Curses and bad luck and superstitions.  But officers – and commodores in particular – were supposed to know better.

   _"Don't get me wrong, luv.  I admire a person whose willing to do whatever is necessary."  And then he'd had to go and say that.  Curse his eyes.  I was the daughter of a governor, used to rank, privilege, and all the benefits and duties that went with that.  The best clothes, invitations to the most fashionable parties, knowing the latest news and gossip from England . . . making a good marriage.  _

   _". . . willing to do whatever is necessary."  Necessary for what?  According to the rules and conduct of my class and sex, I'd done all that was necessary.  I could go lie down and rest from my labors.  Indulge in a case of the vapors.  Start weeping hysterically and uncontrollably.  What was I doing instead?  Worrying about Will and Jack and cursed pirates._

   _". . . whatever is necessary."  Worrying is useless and proper for my class.  Will isn't of my class.  He's out of my reach now that I've given my word to marry another.  _

   _". . . necessary."  Does that mean there was a good man hiding somewhere in Jack, or that there's a pirate hiding somewhere inside me?_

   "Miss Swan?  If I may escort you out of the night air?  It wouldn't do for you take a chill."  I turn to see Norrington's second-in-command behind me, arm extended for me to hang on as is proper for a young lady of quality.  But unnecessary.

   "There was something that Jack didn't tell you that might endanger the mission."  That might endanger Will.  "It's about the crew of the _Black Pearl."  _

   I have the man's complete attention.  He sees nothing wrong in thinking the worst of a pirate.  "By all means, Miss Swan, if you have any information regarding these vermin, please share it."

   They won't believe, but I have to do what is necessary.  "They can't die.  They're cursed."  Gillette's face closes and I know that what is necessary just got that much harder. 


	6. Sea Turtles

**Author's Note:** a new installment!  Yay!  Now that 'Caught by the Past' is coming to an end, I _might_ have a bit more time to dedicate to these . . . if my next fic doesn't take up all my time.

I like this one, because it's just Jack and an unnamed woman.  She can be anyone you want her to be.  I like to think that this is just a scene from my other two fics, taking place somewhere between them, but I know not everyone has read those, so that's why I've left out the woman's name.

Please read, enjoy, and tell me what you think.  I'd love to know if you think I've captured a rarely seen facet of our beloved captain's personality.  ^_^

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"Jack?"

   "Yes, love."

   "How'd you get those gold teeth?"

   _I asked a barber to pull 'em._  "I lot each in particularly nasty barfights started because I didn't like the way men were looking at me."

   Jack had learned a very young age what an advantage blarney could be for a young man making a name for himself.  In the cutthroat world he'd chosen, what people thought you could do was just as important as what they saw you do.  The _story_ about how you lost your leg/arm/eye/finger/soul was more important than the _reality_ of what had happened.  People were more willing, he'd learned, to believe a good story than a boring truth.  And he'd embraced that.  What better way to gain a good reputation than by building it yourself?

   "Jack?"

   "Yes, love."

   "Where did you get these beads?"

   _I raided a Portuguese trading vessel early on in my career and took them because I thought they'd enhance the image I was trying to get people to buy into._  Jack looked over at the woman lying lazily in his arms.  He didn't think the usual story of the year he'd spent in Singapore would go over well.  "Well, I once saved a village full of natives from the plague.  To show their gratitude, they each gave me a bead."

   "Was this before or after they made you their chief?"

   "After."

   He'd been relatively smart about spreading rumors about himself.  He hadn't said anything . . . many things . . . that didn't have a kernel of truth in them somewhere.  At least, not at the beginning.  People were more likely to believe rumors when they could see where they'd come from.  To that end, he'd grown a beard to cover up his baby-face.  He'd worked on lowering his voice so it would sound like he'd spent years yelling over the elements.  He'd started wearing kohl to make his eyes seem not quite as wide as they really were, and adopted the staggering, drunken walk to enforce the image of a man more used to taverns and unstable surfaces than dry land.

   But years had passed.  The rumors grew, gaining force until he no longer had to start many himself, and the ones he _did_ start could grow more and more outlandish.  And not only did some of those rumors come true, but some of his disguises also became truth.  He now had something of a permanent squint from spending years looking at sun-dazzled waters.  He had a permanent pair of sea-legs.  Grime and calluses coated his hands, his hair was a mess even he didn't want to think about, other than adding a braid or two to keep the mess out of his face.  And his silver tongue managed to get him out of just as many situations as it got him into.  And that's where his current trouble came from; he was far more used to unintentionally lying than to telling the truth.  Truth was now something that escaped his lips only when he had nothing to lose, no other recourse, or if he intentionally thought about it. 

   Once again he looked at the drowsy woman at his side.  If this was the life he truly wanted, he was going to have to become a bit more straightforward with some parts of his life . . . if not all of it.  It was a strange thought.  After so many years of telling stories to build his reputation and character, after spreading rumors to make a name for himself, after fully embracing _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, he had to give it up.  Well, not entirely, but enough to base his new life on truth and fact rather than a stack of outrageous tales.  But he would start in the morning.

   "Jack?"

   "Yes, love."

   "Where did you get this bone?"  The woman in his arms touched the spur of bone sticking out of his hair.

   "I got it from a shark I killed with my bare hands.  Saved one of the bones as a memento."

   "Jack?"

   "Hmm?"

   "Sharks don't have bones."

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**Ok, that was it.  Go read some of my other stuff.  ^_^**


	7. What's Right by Them

**Author's Note: watched PotC today with the writer commentary.  Extremely fascinating stuff, from a writer's standpoint.  I was enthralled.  I also laughed out loud when they said that the 'dust' in the bag that Jack sprays on Will to end their fight was really coco powder, and one of them commented, "Chocolate covered Will . . . think about that."  It was really funny.  **

**But other parts inspired me to write about this little scene.  I've got another 15 or so of this planned, I know what lines I want to use, it's just a matter of finding the right angles to tell the story from, and I finally found the one that was right for this piece.  So enjoy this quick little look into Will's mind.**

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What is right, and what is wrong.  These are not new concepts.  They are taught to every schoolboy and every young girl in pinafores before they can stretch their wings.  Why?  Because what would happen should those wings stretch too far?  Unpredictability . . . unreliability . . . lawlessness . . . change.  Society fears change, and tells others that they should fear it as well, even if that does mean doing what is lawful instead of what is right at times.  If it wasn't right, it wouldn't be a law.

   I didn't like it, but I believed it.  Society is not always so kind to parentless waifs, and while my story may have had at least a 'proper' ending, I'm not sure I would have necessarily called it a happy one.  But who needs happiness when you have moral propriety and a spotless reputation, even if your conscience may be less than clean?  

   Just days ago, my world was starkly black and white.  I knew my place, I knew my station.  It wasn't something to fight against – it was the way things were and always would be.  You take the cards life deals you and do the best you can.  But I forget – playing cards is not necessarily respectable.

   Neither is piracy.

   What is lawful is not always right, and what is unlawful is not always wrong.

   Days ago I was ready to kill Jack Sparrow after I found him in my smithy.  Black and white.  He was a pirate, he had threatened Elizabeth . . . what else did I need to turn him over to the Commodore if my blade didn't sheathe itself in his chest first?  But even then, I did what was right, even if I didn't necessarily do what was smart.  Jack ignored the rules of conduct, I did not, and even though I beat with the sword, he still outsmarted me.  It stung, and I appreciated the fact that it was a lesson in how unscrupulous men fought, but I didn't take it to heart.  Then the pirates came and took Elizabeth and I discovered the only way to do what was right – the only way to get her back as quickly as possible – was to join forces with a pirate.

   I did, and found several things I didn't like at all.  First of all, Jack wasn't necessarily 'bad' once you got to know him.  Unscrupulous and untrustworthy?  Yes.  Did he murder the crew of the _Dauntless _in cold blood?  No.  Had he intended to trade my life for the _Black Pearl_?  Yes.  In the end, did he leave me to die?  No.  I didn't like the contradictions.

   I also discovered freedom outside society, and I discovered it felt good.  And unwelcome epiphany, but one worth pondering after I returned to Port Royal and my hammers and tongs.

  And lastly, I found out who my father had truly been.  I wonder if he'd ever been a merchant sailor, or if he'd lied to Mother, or if she had been the one lying to me.  Had my father been 'a good man' who had found he had no other choice than to turn to piracy to support his wife and child?  And if he was a good man, and I considered myself to be a good man, did that mean that piracy also loomed on my horizon?  It seemed a ridiculous thing to ask myself while in a cave with cursed treasure in a chest beneath me and a knife to my neck.

   _"Because I was afraid that you were a pirate.  That would have been awful."_

_   "It wasn't your blood they needed.  It was my father's blood . . . my blood . . . the blood of a pirate."_

   That had been the moment when I knew I was losing Elizabeth.  If my being a pirate then had been awful, then in what light would she see my actions when we returned to Port Royal?

   Then there'd been the fight, and the _Interceptor's_ destruction, and Elizabeth and Jack had been marooned again. . . .  Sitting alone in a cell while Jack's entire crew occupied the other, I wondered.  I wondered about my blood and if this had all been fated, Jack Sparrow's interference notwithstanding.  Those thoughts were interrupted by the tale of how my father had actually died – he'd died because he'd refused to made do with a guilty conscience.  Mutiny was wrong, and while he might not have actively taken part in the mutiny against Jack, he hadn't fought against it . . . until he sent the medallion to me.

   _"Good man."_  The phrase that Jack had uttered was repeated by Gibbs, and only confirmed by what facts I now had.

   So, now after all that I've seen and learned in the past days, I sit in a rowboat with the woman I love (who is engaged to another) and the pirate who helped save us both (who is now condemned to death for offering it.  

   "They done what's right by them.  Can't expect more than that."

   The words, world-weary and spoken without bitterness spoke to me, even as it awoke a side I'd long denied.

   The call of my blood.  The voice of a pirate who stood up for another.  The voice of my father, a man who refused to turn on a friend, pirate or not.  If his blood runs in my veins, then surely so does the integrity to stand up for a man who in the act of ending a curse and saving the entire crew of the _Dauntless_, gave up his own opportunity to save his own life.

   They did what was right by them.

   Can I do what is right by me?  What's right by Jack?

   _"Good man.  Good pirate. . . ."_

   I don't know what I can achieve, but I know I must try.  

   My conscience will be clear.

*********************************************************

**Ok, that was it.  I had a hard time keeping this one under 1,000 words, but I managed.  Just thought at least one of you might be interested to know that this entire vignette was inspired by a single look on Will's face.  Right after Jack says,  "They done what's right by them.  Can't expect more than that," there's a look on Will's face that made it seem like the words meant something to him, and the rest is history.  So, there we good.  Review and let me know what you think.**


	8. Watching Over You

**Author's Note: **ok, so it's been two months since I've posted anything on ff.net.  I'm sorry.  I've had an extreme case of writer's block, and I think I really needed the break.  I hope that you all find this installment to be just as good as the previous ones, although I'm not sure.  I think my fingers may be a little rusty.  ^_^

In other news, bobo3 and I have resumed writing our combined story, Twisting Fate, now that my computer and my mind are both cooperating.  We're writing tonight, and I'm optimistic that we can get a new chapter up by the end of the week.

On with the story.

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When the Interceptor had exploded, my heart had gone with it.  I remember charging Barbossa, armed with nothing but my fists and my loss, screaming at him to stop it.  Now, looking back, I can admit that I wasn't thinking rationally.  But then I thought Will was dead.

   It was more than the loss of a love that could only be cherished but never realized.  It was a promise – a long held and honored promise – that had been broken.

   Standing on that plank over the ocean, looking at Will as he was surrounded by pirates, his protests gagged and his struggles quelled, I remembered the waterlogged survivor that'd been fished out of the Atlantic eight years earlier.

   "Elizabeth, I want you to accompany the boy.  He'll be in your charge.  Take care of him."  I'd known it was a ploy to distract me from the burning wreckage of the other ship, but I'd listened to my father.  All my life words like duty, responsibility, and obligation had been touted to me along with the ideals of my class.  We cared for those put in our charge because we were the ones with the resources to do so.  And this was the first time I'd been entrusted with anything more than a songbird.

   Will had been so defenseless lying on the covered hatch, his body engulfed by a rough blanket.  Now that I look back, I decide that the feeling was akin to seeing a beaten puppy, and I wonder if that's where the phrase "puppy love" came from.

   Taken from the start, I reached down to brush some hair out of his face.  He'd started, I'd calmed him.  "I'm watching over you, Will."  Fateful words.  One's I've never regretted until recently, because they placed me above him when all I wanted was to be beside him.  Yet now, my protection, my patronage, is all I can ever offer, and it burns me.

   _Fate._

   Was fate in play that day when I stole his medallion?  "You're a pirate," I'd gasped at his unconscious form.  I'd seen the proof, I'd taken it, and I'd hidden it.

   But I'd never thrown it away.  I'd kept it close to me as if the intangible connection would somehow keep me close to him.

   ". . . accompany the boy.  He'll be in your charge.  Take care of him."  

_   Duty._

   I know my duty.

   But now, as I circle this . . . this godforsaken spit of land, I realize whom was protecting whom.  Yes, Will has had my patronage, but I'm the one who had his protection.  He didn't have to tell Barbossa who his father was.  But he did . . . and I was the first one bought with that name.

   I failed.  I failed when I used his name to protect myself.

   I failed when I had left him trapped below deck on a sinking ship.

   When the ship had exploded.

   When he'd given himself for me.

   Can I survive another failure?

   Can he?

   I notice Jack leaving, and I follow him.  I tell him that we have to go after Will because he risked his life to save us.  We have to follow.

   "To what point and purpose, young missy?  The _Black Pearl_ is gone, and unless you have rudder and a lot of sails hidden in that bodice – unlikely – young Mr. Turner will be dead long before you can reach him."

   I hate Jack in that moment.  But I don't let it stop me.

   I remind him of his impossible escapes of the past . . . only to learn that they weren't so impossible.  He's willing to sit here and let things play out without him.  Well, I'm not.  I _need_ to get to Will.  He's proven himself to me.  I have to do the same.

   The sloshing bottle of rum in my hand is what eventually gives me inspiration.  I have a personal dislike for the liquid, but I do know that it's an excellent fuel for fire.  And if I can make a big enough one, then surely someone will be alerted and come to get us.

   But Jack won't go along with it voluntarily.  I have to distract him, and knowing the pirate, the best way to do that will be to get him drunk.  Then once daylight comes, start the fire, alert any passing ships, and go to get Will.

   I need to get to him.

   I need to rescue him.

   I need to keep my word.  Complete my duty.

   I need to let him know that . . . .

   . . . that I love him.

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**Well?  What say you all?  Have I managed to capture ****Elizabeth****'s nature?  Is there a scene or POV that you'd like to see coming from me in the near future?  I'm open to suggestions and reviews.  It's been a long time since I've gotten one.  ^_^  My own fault for not writing though.  I'm trying to work on that, really.**


	9. It's Not My Place

When you're in service, you're only allowed to let on that you know as much as your betters want you to know. I think both parties know how foolish this is – for people living so closely together not to notice little things, and hear little things, and see little things – but it's a pretty little fantasy for them, and a nice secret for us.

Not that there is much to notice, overhear, or see in the Swann household, or at least not much worth talking about over a bit of tea at the end of a long day. Most of us have served the Swanns since before they came to the colonies. I was a young girl then, with my eye on the blacksmith's apprentice. But the move to a foreign land – even if it was under British control – was too much temptation for my blacksmith's sake. I was one of the dozen servants who left England with the Gov'nor. After all there had to be blacksmiths in the islands, right? Shows what I know. My John is the groomsman, and a fine one at that. It wasn't long though, before another blacksmith and his lady became feed for prattering tongues. That his lady was actually _our_ lady made the talk ever so much more scandalous.

We all remember of course, how little Elizabeth had tended to her bedraggled orphan in the days following that _dreadful_ encounter with the burning remains of what had once been a ship. She was imperious, demanding blankets, and warm tea sweetened with honey, and hot brinks wrapped in strips of cloth. The young lady had learned a great deal from her mother's last illness and put her knowledge to work. It was a great thing to see her bright eyes as she went about her work, talking nearly nonstop with the boy once he'd regained consciousness. Aboard ship, some things – like social differences between children – are ignored, and the Gov'nor would never deny his daughter anything.

There was no future in the relationship of course, but neither child seemed to realize that until we docked, and a crusty old man appeared to take charge of Will. But perhaps the boy had been expecting it, because he went with no argument. No, fiery Elizabeth was the one to protest and argue, wanting the companionship of another child. The Gov'nor was tempted, we could see . . . but he was the Gov'nor. If he didn't uphold propriety and decency, who would?

The matter seemed to be put at an end as weeks, months, and years went by and both children grew up. I was promoted from simple housemaid to lady's maid. When the lady turned sixteen, it was decided she was old enough to take on the duties of hostess and chatelaine, and for her introduction to what society Port Royal had, a dinner party was to be thrown in her honor. A dinner party for which she needed a dress.

It was during that trip to the dressmaker's that the lady and Mr. Turner – now grown into the promise of his gangly body, much in the same way a puppy grows into his paws – once again made each other's acquaintance. It was immediately plain to see that the lady's matronly concern had turned into something much more suitable for a young woman, or at least for a young woman who didn't have better prospects ahead of her. It was obvious too, in young Turner's eyes that he had not forgotten his champion and that his feelings too had changed to suit his growing frame. Trouble in the making, we all agreed.

A few months later, the Commodore's – or as he was then, the Captain's – polite greetings on the street became something more. Again, we looked at each other over the kitchen table late at night and talked. Such a fine young officer was a excellent match for our lady, although it was plain to see that she was too lost in her thoughts of her apprentice to notice the Captain's attentions. Young love can be blinding like that, we sighed. A pity she cannot have her love. A great pity.

And now the lady must be exhausted after the day she's had. Much too exciting for someone of her temperament. _Most likely she's fretted herself into a dither,_ I thought as I filled the warming pan, watching my mistress gaze sightlessly into space as she pretended to read.

"There you go, miss. It was a difficult day for you, I'm sure."

She looks at me shares in a confidential voice, "I suspected Commodore Norrington would propose, but I must admit, I wasn't entirely prepared for it."

The poor dove. Love-addled for sure. "Well, I meant you being threatened by that pirate. Sounds terrifying."

She seems to realize her mistake. "Oh, yes, it was terrifying."

"But the Commodore proposed," I cooed, the general consensus downstairs being that she needed to be nudged into acceptance of what kind of life was laid out for her. If after a year or two of marriage, she still loved the boy . . . well, her husband would be gone a lot. "Fancy that. Now that's a smart match, Miss, if it's not too bold to say."

She started her sightless gazing again, seeing young Turner most likely. "Yes, it is a smart match. He is a fine man; the sort any woman should dream of marrying."

But not who she dreamed of marrying. Well, if she had the will for it. . . "That Will Turner, he's a fine man too."

She looks sharply at me. "That _is_ too bold."

And just what she wanted to hear. "Begging your pardon, Miss. It's not my place." No, that would be in the kitchen with a hot cup of tea and plenty or ears to listen to _this_ development.

* * *

_Author's Note: thanks to all who take time to review. Hope you enjoyed this little tidbit._


	10. One Good Deed

Life is governed by rules. Especially for the second son of a prominent family. Second sons have always been viewed as prodigal. It's the first born that has all the familial duties. The responsibility to the existing generations and the ones to be. One would think that would be enough.

The second sons though – especially the second sons of families without noble blood - they're the ones that have a struggle on their hands. To prove that they have and can make something of themselves is to be the epitome of everything expected of a gentleman of breeding. There is no room for even a single misstep, whether it be in career or social life. One mistake, one thoughtless word, one unwise deed . . . they are what can mean the difference between a life of success and a life of anonymity.

I know because I have lived this life, and I have the duties and respect to show for it.

In a way it has been easy. When there are rules governing every part of your life – from how to eat, how to dress, how to stand, speak . . . even how to make one's bed – then the chance of making a mistake is small. If one can keep the rules straight.

As a young man I'd run the rules that govern my life through my head over and over instead of carousing with my peers. I'd fall asleep reciting them, and wake up with them in the forefront of my mind. That dedication has borne fruit. I'm no longer an young man. The men with whom I once shared quarters with in my off-hours have done well for themselves, but well has never been enough for me.

Excellence, honor, duty, respect, obedience, responsibility . . . chivalry. These _ideas_ have embroidered my existence in the same way these gilded threads hem in my sleeves. There is no way to grow except within the boundaries of one's set of rules. As more responsibilities are given and commendations gained, a new row of embroidery is added in military exactness. Women, drink, and riches all have their place. Used wisely, they make life very comfortable indeed. But unless a man is able to control his desire of them, he is a slave to them, and a slave has no control. No respect. No name and no future.

No, I am a self-made man. Whatever credit I have to my name, whatever plaudits I've been given, whatever acclaim I've garnered, it is mine. My family may hold their heads up. The men under their command needn't wonder if I will throw them pointlessly into battles that have not been planed down to the minutia. The people I am in charge of protecting will not need to question my complete devotion to making the islands and lawless waters of their homes safe.

Despite all of this though, I am always conscious that one misstep – in the past, in the present, or in the future – could bring all my accomplishments crashing down around my head. As I gain more and more influence the enormity of the mistake grows. I will not lose my post due to a careless comment to a man of greater rank. I will not be shipped back to England for a momentary lapse of temper in front of the wrong person. As long as I am a credit to my rank and the great men who have commended me through the years, I will never have to worry about my future again.

There is much I've learned in life, but no lesson is so striking as that without discipline, nothing is possible. Crops can't be grown, cloth can't be woven, ships can't be built, men can't be anything more than savages. It is discipline that keeps a man from giving into his base desires.

And here, on the day of what is my greatest triumph to date, I am forced to come face to face with the evidence that all I have ever believed is correct. _Vile and dissolute creatures, the lot of them._ That description is still apt. They prey on their fellow man, spreading disease, discontent, and destruction in their wake. Why does Elizabeth not see this as she stubbornly trails along, trying to defend this wastrel?

Finally in exasperation I answer her pleas for lenience with military – and moral – authority. "One good deed is not enough to redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness." Her jaw drops at this stern answer. The pirate takes all this in stride however.

"Though it seems enough to condemn him."

Shock registers his words in my ears. How is it that a pirate – someone from the lowest rungs of society – is able to so aptly target into a thought I've held all my life?

It is that shock I blame for what happens next. Allowing a gentlewoman to get so close to a criminal is and was inexcusable. The pirate takes his opportunity for escape, and fearing for Elizabeth's life, my men and I can only allow him to proceed. He hasn't escaped me for long though. I will not allow him to so tarnish my career on it's brightest day. _Captain_ Jack Sparrow has a date to keep whether he likes it or not. I've spent a lifetime learning how to bend events to my will. This time will be no different.

* * *

Just a note to everyone reading this – Norrington, at this point in the movie where we don't know much about him, is hard to write. There is no depth to his character yet, but this is my interpretation of him.

Also I want to thank everyone who is reading bobo3's Twisting Fate. She's doing an excellent job. Much better than I could ever do at this point in her life. This is really her baby, and I want you all to continue encouraging her. Not that I think she'll make that difficult. :D


	11. No Manner of Luck

_As a dreamer of dreams and a travelin' man_

_I have chalked up many a mile _

_Read dozens of books about heroes and crooks_

_And I learned much from both of their styles_

_

* * *

_

Luck.

I'm of a double mind when it comes to luck.

Oh, some might say that fortune is a straightforward, predictable thing. Something that can be attracted or repelled. Four leaf clovers. Black cats. Rabbit's feet. Spilt salt. Fortune favors the bold.

Landlubbers are like that. They're so used to everything they lay hands on being . . . solid. Unshifting. As unmovable, unchangeable, and unyielding as a mountain. That's what comes of walking on a surface that doesn't jump under your feet.

But a sailor . . . a sailor knows better. He knows that Lady Fortune is two-faced. It's his lot in life after all. The sea his mistress is cold and implacable, and his patron is two-faced. One person's gamble is another's gain. Every turn of good luck is another disappointment in your neighbor's string of bad luck. The examples can go on forever. What tempers a man's luck – good or bad – is remembering that staying on top is only a matter of seeing both sides of a trick coin. If one can understand the give and take of loss and gain, then they can retain control of the situation.

It's undoubtedly true that some situations take longer to resolve than others. For a decade I've forever been a step behind my greatest loss. The stinged kiss of fate – cruel to me, kind to the mutineers who stole my ship – has never fully faded from my cheek. It has been tempered – rescue by the rumrunners to my delight and Barbossa's unknowing downfall – but never forgotten.

But today . . . today the wind may be with me if I can only track its course. It is that task that consumes me as I sit in this straw-scattered cell, gazing up at a young man who is less skilled at reading fortune than I.

Managing to steal a boat from neighboring Morant Bay was easier than it should have been. I thought I'd been lucky. Then a few hours out, the small boat had started to take on water. Luckily I reached Port Royal and encountered guards whose minds I could turn into mush if I tried. However, they couldn't swim and so I ended up saving the Swann chit whose bloody Naval suitor had me arrested for saving her life. Escape followed. A good thing one would think, until it led me into that blasted blacksmith's shop with it's overeager apprentice. But that wasn't anything I couldn't handle, right? No, the lad turns out to be a decent – more than decent – swordsman. Lost time equals ol' Jack being sent to jail to face the hangman. Next there's an attack on the town, which is a very good distraction. That the ship attacking was my _Pearl_ . . . Wonderful.

The escape of my cell mates certainly seemed like a setback. It's hard to carry out revenge from inside a prison cell. But then my believes were proved true; an unlikely wrong turn led two of those blackhearted miscreants into what they had hoped was the armory. And in a fit of temper, they revealed . . . everything.

_"So there is a curse . . ."_

They left me in the godforsaken prison of course, but at least I knew where they'd eventually go. Cursed . . . at least I know that Barbossa is still alive. If I have my way it won't be for long, but we've still a long way to go before we see how this will all play out.

Now, the final bit of luck that Fortuna threw out the night before is bearing its fruit. It truly was bad luck for the Swann girl to get herself kidnapped. Not just for her, but for all who care for her. Luckily by not knowing her that well, I'm saved that taint. No . . . No, this is wonderful luck for me. The tide has changed, and perhaps my ship, my Pearlwill finally come in, because standing in front of me is the last piece that I – and coincidentally Barbossa – need. Here I am, face to face with the whelp of my former crewmate. Imagine that out of all the places on the globe to be, that he's here on an island that reviles pirates.

Did I mention that fortune also has a sense of humor?

"Well, Mr. Turner, I've changed me mind. If you spring me from this cell I swear on pain of death I shall take you to the Black Pearl and your bonny lass. Do we have an accord?"

A deal is still a deal, even if it is only witnessed by the God and the Devil. He shakes. "Agreed."

"Agreed. Get me out."

_No matter of luck at all, _they said.

My name isn't Captain Jack Sparrow for nothing.

* * *

**Author's Note:** And that, my friends, is the end of 'One Shot'. I have no more tales to tell at the moment - at least in this vein. I thought it appropriate to end on one of Jack. I want to thank you all for reading this, and what more, for telling me what you've thought. Best wishes on Thanksgiving and through the New Year, and here's hoping that sometime in 2005, I have another PotC tale to tell.

Sarah


	12. That's What Concerns Me

Fear makes some men rush. "They've taken her! They've taken Elizabeth!"

It makes others still. "Mr. Murtogg, remove this man."

And I? All I can think of is my daughter.

My precious, headstrong, adventurous daughter.

Gone.

Taken.

Last night I was prepared to celebrate her engagement to a man worthy of her. She'd nearly been snatched from me, but fate had been kind and spared her.

But had she been saved only to be taken by murderous pirates hours later?

I refuse to believe that. Refuse to even consider it. She didn't escape an inadvertent death only to be run to ground by it hours later. Not my little girl. Not my only link to my darling Catherine.

"We have to hunt them down. we must save her."

What does the boy think we've been attempting to do? "And where do you propose we start? If you have any information concerning my daughter, please share it." My precious girl, never afraid of anything. Even when she should be.

_"We pillage, we plunder, we rifle and loot. Drink up me 'earties yo ho!"_

Young again, singing an inappropriate song undoubtedly learned from sailors on leave when she was lurking near the rails while we were in some long forgotten port. But I never had the heart to scold her for it. She was the lone girl amongst many men, the only women she had to visit with were serving women and her governess. Needless to say that she hadn't wanted to spend her entire day with Mrs. Darby, and she'd made the serving women nervous. The ship was small, and Elizabeth had hated living in the darkness of below decks.

I despaired. Not just because of her childish infatuation but for her safety. Then Lieutenant Norrington came to me, willing to keep a spare eye on her when she was flitting about, watching anything and everything her eyes could take in. Much as he has been doing for many years now. Giving him her hand, seeing them join their lives together . . . it only seemed logical. He is a man I can trust, for even if he did not risk his life for hers yesterday – which might very well have brought about the death of both – he kept a cool head. He knew what to do to rescue her from the clutches of that dreadful pirate. He didn't rest until he'd tracked Elizabeth's assailant down.

I can trust him to lend that same tireless devotion to finding her now.

"Mr. Turner, you are not a military man, you are not a sailor. You are a blacksmith and this is _not_ the moment for rash actions. . ."

A blacksmith who has encouraged Elizabeth's own penchant for rashness – for she has a streak as wide as the bay the fort looks down on – but who may understand her better than either of us. I have always secretly wondered if that impulsiveness is the basis for Elizabeth's character.

_"I think it'd be rather exciting to meet a pirate."_

I wonder if her duty and sweet behavior are products of teaching and civility. If they are due to an eagerness to please me . . . as if she could have ever done otherwise.

_"Think again, Miss Swann . Vile and dissolute creatures, the lot of them. I intend to see to it that any man who sails under a pirate flag or wears a pirate brand gets what he deserves – a short drop and a sudden stop."_

The violence she could be facing now. Greater than Norrington's frankness that horrified her. It wouldn't have kept her from debating the point, of course. She has always been one to speak well for herself and her convictions. Always so sure with the certainty of youth that she _must be right._ That she has enough knowledge to negotiate her way out of anything; a danger of having a diplomat and politician for a father I'm afraid. She hasn't yet learned the traps her own words can set for her.

_" Lieutenant Norrington , I appreciate your fervor, but I'm, uh, I'm concerned about the effect this subject will have upon my daughter."_

Oh, for the days when that's all I had to safeguard her from. I should have sent her back to London long ago. Not just so she could experience the full life she was born to, not just so she could be inundated with suitors desperate to learn her name for the exotic scents she trailed in her wake and her wide-eyed interest with all that went around about her. But for her safety.

_"Actually, I find it all fascinating."_

Yes. That's what concerns me.

* * *

**Author's Note: well, apparently I wasn't as empty of these as I thought I was. Perhaps it's because I'm starting to work through a new PotC, that one about Meredith I promised to write. And if I don't do it before PotC2 comes out, I never will. Of course, maybe none of you are interested. I do have another four or five of these one shots up my sleeve though. Enough to keep me posting semi-regularly for the next month or so.**

**  
Also, I just want to thank everyone who's kept running across these and reviewing them. You do urge me to write just a bit more if for no other reason than so I can thank you.**


	13. I Feel Cold

**Author's Note:** here's another little vignette, though I'm not sure I captured Barbossa as well as I did last time. sigh I'll try to get another of these out before Thanksgiving (that'll be three Thanksgivings that I will have been writing these), but I make no promises because the next few weeks are going to be busy.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last vignette. It really does me good to know that I haven't lost my touch or anything like that.

* * *

They faded like the light in a dying man's eyes. It was gradual, as if the curse had a sadistic mind of its own. As if it waited for us to spend every piece of that god-forsaken gold before it took hold with its full strength, luring us into allowing granting it freedom. Letting our own greed fulfill its purpose.

I thought then, before the last piece exchanged hands, that I was sickening. Then that dirty barman had snatched the money from my hand and the full weight of what we'd all done slammed into me with the force of the natives' _kulakani_. I killed the man in a instinctive attempt to reverse what couldn't be undone.

It was too late.

My men weren't happy. They found me immediately. When they discovered what had consummated the curse, they were ready to mutiny. Worse that mutiny. If I hadn't already been all but dead, I quickly would have joined those ranks.

Imbeciles. As if they could have figured out how to lift the curse without me. Perhaps they would have managed to bumble their way to redemption. Perhaps even vengeful, bloodthirsty gods would have taken pity on their stupidity. More likely they would have wiped my crew off the face of the earth.

I wouldn't have missed them.

Rage. Rage I could still feel. And hate. And the most awful of emotions, despair. For eight years that's all I felt. They had been held at bay in the eighteen months it took us to track down most of the coins. For the most part the black marketers and procuresses that take our coin spend their lives in the same dirty, squalid miles that their parents lived and died in. Unfortunately, there's a handful of others always on the run from debts, enemies, or the authorities.

Ten coins in all. But those ten coins took another year to trace.

And then there was the last one.

Once we were so close I could all but taste the success. And then nothing. Turner's brat evaded us somehow. And that led to eight years of idle villainy. Yes, we amassed tremendous amounts of loot, but to what purpose? What could we have bought that would have meant anything? That wouldn't have stirred the flames of rage, despair, and impotence higher?

Nothing.

And then finally – _finally_ – just as my men were about to be drained of all hope, when Tuner's fate started to look attractive, when even our dreams were free of all sensation, the call came. It was a pull our curse-ridden bodies couldn't resist. To do so would have been to court madness that even ten years of being caught between life and death couldn't inspire. Not that we wished to. We wanted the curse broken for better or worse.

All our plans were ruined though when Jack – _Jack!_ – couldn't keep his long nose out of our business. His thirst for revenge was understandable; I had the same thirst since it was his information that sent us to this cave. Not even I could have imagined he would have damned himself just to ensure our defeat.

I know his weakness though; he's always been squeamish about spilling the blood of anyone who isn't a sailor or soldier. I'm not sure why a coward like that ever turned pirate…if the term could even apply to him.

Never mind those thoughts. I am too close to feeling warm again to give up now.

One of Jack's wild sword strokes passes by my cheek and I aim my pistol at the false Turner-girl, knowing that whatever else her death accomplishes, I will have created a distraction. My finger tightens on the trigger –

A shot rings out, and there's a small impact on my chest. I turn my head in disbelief, just in time to see that same emotion take over Jack's eyes.

_The stupid blighter…_ "Ten years you carry that pistol, and now you waste your shot." My voice rings with delight, drowning out the echoes of the pistol report.

"He didn't waste it."

Distain and disbelief turn my face into a mask as the Turner boy drops two bloodstained coins into the chest. Even before the sound of metal hitting metal hits my ears, an icy spear pierces my chest. I have to look down to see if there's something actually there.

_Heat_. I nearly moan in rapture at the sensation of heat even as I was blood gush out of the wound I didn't have time to heal by one last trip into the moonlight. The heat quickly vanishes, only to be replaced by the cold. Even the pain is gone.

"I feel…cold."

And as my vision goes dark, I can only think that it feels heavenly.

* * *

_kulakani_ – Arawak term for "hurricane." The Arawaks inhabited Columbia, Venezuela, Guiana, the Amazon basin in Brazil, Paraguay, Bolivia, Peru, and most of the Greater Antilles (Cuba, Jamaica, Haiti, Dominican Republic).

Source: The American Heritage College Dictionary, 4th Edition


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